The Name of the Rose

Mostly as an experiment, I decided to read Umberto Eco's first opus, The Name of the Rose, immediately after finishing Foucault's Pendulum, much as one who, slightly drunk, performs a stunt on a dare and then, bolstered at having not suffered any permanent physical damage, decides to do it again out of sheer bravado.

The real challenge, I think, would be to read these two in the opposite order, since after slogging through Pendulum's morass, Name of the Rose felt like a lazy afternoon stroll.  While it suffers the same fundamental flaws as the Pendulum novel, Rose is, by my objective scientific measurement, roughly 2.8 times easier to read.

But make no mistake, the same flaws are indeed both present and unavoidable.  Rose exhibits the same penchant for extended bouts of rambling historical minutia drenched in turgid and esoteric language, and is thus incapable of getting out of its own way so it can just tell a damn story already.

The advantage goes to Name of the Rose, however, because that underlying (and under-served) story is itself so much more interesting and substantial, compared to the ramshackle mess in Pendulum.

Also, the characters here are much more inherently likable and (to my mind) capable of shouldering the plot, though the author might roll his eyes at my simpleton's preference for what are no doubt his less multidimensional creations.  But honestly, that's what he gets when he has us accompany a medieval Sherlock Holmes in one book while expecting us to empathize with a group of whiny and conceited fraudsters in the other.

In the end, though, if I managed to take something enjoyable away from the effort, I feel like it was in spite of the author's labor rather than because of it; like Eco had stumbled upon a sterling plot in a dusty attic somewhere and then proceeded to properly bugger the attempt to put it down on paper, unable or unwilling to keep his fetish for semiotic verbosity in check.  And I have to confess that I ventured into this book with a heavy predisposition to enjoy it, since I count the 1986 cinematic adaptation by Jean-Jacques Annaud among my favorite films of all time.

So, with two Eco novels under my belt, I'm perfectly content to move on and leave the rest of the good doctor's fictional work on the shelf.  Looking back on the endeavor, it feels like the literary equivalent of running a marathon just so that I could say that I had.  I admit to taking satisfaction at the accomplishment, but I never experienced any reader's high that compels me to continue what otherwise felt like a laborious and unpleasant activity.

Thus, with a tip of the hat, I bid Umberto Eco farewell in a fashion of his own favor, with a frustratingly untranslated bit of Latin:

Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

(No, just kidding.  Dear reader, I will not recommit the sins that have been committed upon me.  It says: "Perhaps even these things will be good to remember one day.")

Quotations

•  In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro. Loosely: I have sought tranquility in everything but found it nowhere except in a corner with a book.  Evidently, a quote of Thomas à Kempis. (forward)
• The young no longer want to study anything, learning is in decline, the whole world walks on its head, blind men lead others equally blind and cause them to plunge into the abyss… (page 1)
• …when the possession of earthly things is in question, it is difficult for men to reason justly. (page 50)
• Don't trust renewals of the human race when curias and courts speak of them. (page 118)
• …because young people seem to need sleep more than the old, who have already slept so much and are preparing to sleep for all eternity. (page 182)
• This, in fact, is the power of the imagination, which, combining the memory of gold with that of the mountain, can compose the idea of a golden mountain. (page 188)
• …when your true enemies are too strong, you have to choose weaker enemies. (page 192)
• How beautiful was the spectacle of nature not yet touched by the often perverse wisdom of man! (page 282)
• Such is the magic of human languages, that by human accord often the same sounds mean different things. (page 288)
• Books are not made to be believed, but to be subjected to inquiry. (page 316)
• After so many years even the fire of passion dies, and with it what was believed the light of the truth.  Who of us is able to say now whether Hector or Achilles was right, Agamemnon or Priam, when they fought over the beauty of a woman who is now dust and ashes? (page 392)
• Madmen and children always speak the truth. (page 394)
• This was the only earthly love of my life, and I could not, then or ever after, call that love by name. (page 407)